


Maybe It's All Gone Black But You're All I See

by foibles_fables



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't weakness. This is reaction. A post-ep for "Desecrated."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's All Gone Black But You're All I See

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own _Legend of the Seeker_. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Legend of the Seeker_. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**

Even on the brink of death, there's irony: she craves air the most right when it's about to run out.

Her entire body feels stiff and sore, sprawled haphazardly on the hard floor. There's a throbbing ache in the back of her skull – something about being shoved into the wall, it's not very clear anymore – and her jaw protests with sharp vehemence when she tries to open her mouth. But this is tolerable. She's used to this kind of pain: bruising, bleeding, bones shattering. It barely even registers.

Instead, it's overshadowed by the burning in her chest. Her lungs realize that they're not getting their fill, so they work harder, faster, trying to replenish what's being lost. And it aches, there's no more air. It's like she's inhaling nothing but dust and shards of metal. They puncture and attack, tearing her open on the exhale, and her body tenses, locking her in place. The more she thinks about it, the more her lungs strain, and the more they strain, the more she thinks about it. A vicious cycle.

Something's coursing through her, something with a cold bite. It's not fear, not panic. Her training would override that. It's raw instinct, a reflexive reaction to deprivation, something even the Agiel couldn't tear away from her. This is a different kind of death. Her heart pounds, Her ears ring. her skin is slick with sweat, and she's hyperaware of the walls. They're closing in on her. Her eyes squeeze shut with another futile attempt at a breath.

Kahlan should have killed her. She should have gotten to the dagger. She should have fought harder.

That thought brings more, unclear and unsteady. Something she said, or should have said. Something important. She can't think of what it was. Her mind is reeling. The torches are so dim she almost can't see anymore, or maybe she's starting to black out. Or both.

It takes considerable effort to turn her head. Dizzy tunnel vision makes the world spin, makes her head throb. Her hand's response to her mind's command to move is sluggish, but it inches along, groping in the darkness for something to hold onto. An anchor to keep her in her body. She's floating somewhere above it. Her chest tries to heave but finds that it can't. There should be a hand beside her, if she can just reach a little father.

This isn't weakness. This is reaction.

But even when she's reached as far as she can, when she collapses with the effort, there's nothing but solid stone beneath her gloved fingers. There's no warm, resilient hand to grip. There's nothing to keep her here. Delirium messes with her reasoning. Fleeting ideas fly past so quickly she can only grab fragments that don't make sense. Maybe Kahlan had found a way to escape, and left her here. Left her behind.

Or maybe she was never with her in the first place.

Either way, there's no hand. She's alone.

And now, there really is no air left. She knows it. The torches are out. Everything is slipping through her fingers and spiraling away.

" _Cara._ "

The distant whisper keeps her lucid for another second. The voice is familiar, gentle, but urgent, echoing and reverberating. Her mind can't connect it to a face. Her eyes flutter closed.

She hears it once more (more insistent, this time, _Cara_ ), before everything stops.

But another moment passes and it's closer. She's still alive, somehow. Her eyes are closed. There's no tightness in her head, just heat all over.

"Cara."

The whisper binds her to her body and her eyes open, search the surroundings, utterly disoriented. Something grabs her arm and she flips over blindly, ending up in some awkward sort of defensive crouch.

She finds herself staring into Kahlan's bewildered face and realizes that she's awake. Alive, again.

She takes a few experimental breaths. Fresh air rushes in and she makes it so her lungs are full to bursting. She slowly lowers herself onto the blanket again, glancing around. Wide open space, smattered thickly with trees. Zedd fast asleep across the fire pit Richard dug out earlier.

They've been out of that tomb for hours. Cara swallows and gathers her composure before turning to Kahlan, drawing herself to a sitting position.

"Why did you wake me?" she asks, letting exasperation leak into her voice, because it's natural.

Kahlan blinks at her, blue eyes narrowing in confused concern. She lets go of Cara's arm. "You were thrashing around," Kahlan explains, rearranging herself, folding her hands in her lap, shifting back and resting her weight on her heels. "Badly enough to wake me."

"Well, I apologize," Cara tells her even though there's not the slightest hint of apology in her voice, eager to end this conversation as quickly as possible. "Now that we've cleared that up, why don't we make it up to one another and go back to sleep?" She flashes Kahlan a sarcastic little smile before rolling to her other side, hiding her face from the Mother Confessor.

She's annoyed when Kahlan stays in place for another few moments, and she can picture the skeptical expression twisting her features. She counts down the seconds until she speaks again.

"Are you alright, though?" Caution swells in her voice, treading lightly. "I thought, maybe…" A beat. Hesitation. Cara frowns and hopes she'll drop it. No such luck. "It almost looked like you were having a nightmare."

Cara answers immediately, almost before Kahlan can finish her sentence, hoping it doesn't sound overly defensive. Her words are clipped. "That's absurd." Because it is. "Just in case you weren't aware-" (she draws out the words for emphasis) "-I don't have nightmares." Because she doesn't. Didn't. No, still doesn't. She forces the uncertainty below.

That's it. She offers no further explanation, not another word. Even if Kahlan can't read her, elaboration on her part would undoubtedly give her away.

After a few more moments of the cold shoulder, Kahlan makes a little noise and Cara senses her lying down at her blanket.

She's restless, then. She turns on her back, staring at the sky. She can't close her eyes. Every time she tries, the tomb materializes in the darkness, the torches extinguishing, hand reaching, searching for something that's not there. She clenches her jaw against the fury that boils in her chest.

Something's happening. Something's different, not right. Or, at least, not like it was before. This is unheard of. She sighs and shifts almost violently. There's something inside of her trying to get out, make itself known. The reason for this disconcerting change, the nightmare.

Maybe she never had anything to fear losing before.

A few moments of awful indecision pass, alternating shades of conviction and hesitation passing with them. It eats Cara from the inside out. Leading off of a frustrated sigh, she murmurs into the cool night air. Her tone is flat and rushed, words tripping over one another clumsily as they break through.

"In the…dream, I'm in the tomb. The air is just about running out. Your hand isn't there."

It's almost enough to make her writhe in discomfort.

Silence hangs heavily after the last word is over, and maybe Kahlan is already asleep. Cara clings to that bit of hope for her pride.

Kahlan's soft reply squashes that fairly quickly.

"I'm sorry."

The gentleness of the words infuriates Cara for a split second. She turns her head in Kahlan's direction to find that Kahlan is looking at her as well, carefully masking sympathy. She knows that Cara would not like it if she let it show. Cara narrows her eyes, locked on Kahlan's. "It's nothing," she comments with the equivalent of a shrug in her voice. She can mask things too. "It's not real."

"I know." Kahlan tucks her chin into her chest, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Cara glances away without knowing why. "Still."

Cara sees movement and returns her gaze to Kahlan as the Mother Confessor extends her arm toward Cara's blanket. Her hand is upturned, relaxed, fingers delicately curved.

"But my hand's here now."

Cara's eyebrows quirk, eyes widening, utterly baffled. No way is this happening. Kahlan holds back a laugh, lower lip catching between her teeth. "Whether you take it or not is your choice. As long as you know that it's there."

Leaving her arm outstretched, Kahlan flexes her back to get comfortable and lightly closes her eyes.

Damning herself forever, Cara reaches over. She only touches Kahlan's hand at first, but when she feels the warmth, she can't help but latch on. Kahlan's fingers curl around hers, and Cara's eyes flutter closed.

But.

"Just so we're clear," she says, voice slurring with exhaustion, " _this_ does nothing to validate anything I might have said in the tomb."

She can feel the playful roll of the eyes and the curve of the smile that accompany Kahlan's final words.

"Of course not."

They echo distantly until everything stops.


End file.
